"Enough discussion," roared the Fat Man, his bulk jiggling as he gestured emphatically. "Will you pay, monsieur? Is fifty thousand too much? How about thirty thousand, and I let Tariq have some fun with Mme. Lyon for our viewing pleasure."
Kismet ignored the man's tirade, but one of the bodyguards — the man with the scar — moved closer, as if eager to indulge the proposition. Lyse continued pleading for him to buy the statue, but he tuned her out, focusing on the sun disk. He stared at the inscription for several seconds before realizing what it was about the statue that had been bothering him. He kicked himself for having failed to note the discrepancy in his initial inspection, then lowered the calf and turned to Lyse.
"We need to talk," he said in a low voice.
"No talk," declared the Fat Man. "Buy the statue now or she dies. That is a promise, Kismet. And might I add that it would also be to your own advantage to act quickly."
Kismet glanced from Lyse to the Fat Man, then back again, trying to read the intent on their faces. Someone was trying to con him, but who was the mastermind: the Fat Man or Lyse? There had been times during the course of their relationship when she had delighted in pranks, twisting him around her little finger, but nothing like this.
He was sure of one thing. The Fat Man was not going to let them just walk away. It was time to take the initiative. Hefting the statue casually, he faced their corpulent host. "Well, I don't actually have that much cash with me. Do you take American Express?"
The Fat Man gazed back, incredulous. Kismet grinned, and then burst into motion. Turning on his heel, he swung the statue like a club, catching the bodyguard Tariq in the jaw. The big Moor collapsed backward, dazed but not unconscious.
"Nick, what are you doing?" shrieked Lyse.
As the remaining guard reached for his gun, Kismet hurled the statue at him. The artifact caught the man in the elbow, and his pistol tumbled from his grasp. Kismet leapt across the room, laying the stunned man out with a haymaker punch. Now nothing stood between him and the exit.
Lyse seemed to be frozen to the spot where she stood. Her eyes flashed around the room, glancing rapidly at the Fat Man and the bodyguards, but then her gaze settled upon the golden statue where it lay.
"Are you coming?" growled Kismet.
The Fat Man suddenly began crying out for help, but did not move to hinder either of them. Lyse overcame her shock and dashed across the room, pausing only to scoop up the fallen relic.
"Lyse, that statue—" He was unable to finish the sentence as Tariq got to his feet and charged. Lyse's small form darted through the beaded curtain, leaving him to face the wrath of the bodyguards alone. Rather than attempt to match the big man in hand-to-hand combat, he simply stepped aside at the last minute, sweeping out with his foot out to hook Tariq's ankle. The big man plunged headlong into the wall, and Kismet vaulted over him in pursuit of his old flame.
He caught up to her at the front entrance where she was panting to catch her breath. A dark shape rested on a table beside the door; his waist pack waiting right where he had left it after entering the Fat Man's lair. He looped the buckled strap over his head so that it hung from his shoulder like a satchel, then took hold of Lyse's arm and dragged her out into the street.
"Which way?" she asked, her breathing almost normal again.
Kismet shrugged then chose to follow the street to the right, toward the fading glow of the sunset. The main suuq, the Djemaa el-Fna, lay in that direction. The crowded marketplace would provide ample opportunity to blend in and escape spying eyes. A moment later Tariq and his companion burst from the house and gave chase.
The streets were narrow, the two and three story buildings seeming to fold over on top of them like a subterranean passageway. He knew that these streets, like some of the forgotten places he had explored in his search for answers about the strange mystery of his life, formed a daunting maze full of dead ends and unpleasant surprises.
As they rounded a corner, Kismet saw that the street ahead was partially blocked; a forest-green Range Rover was parked at an angle to effectively limit access to the avenue. A Caucasian man leaned against the front fender of the vehicle, idly smoking a cigarette and shooing off beggars and children as thought they were flies, with a dismissive smoky wave. When he caught sight of Kismet and Lyse running toward him the half-finished butt fell from his fingers.
A commotion erupted behind them as Tariq, his companion and several other men — undoubtedly the Fat Man's domestic staff — burst out onto the street, shouting angrily and scanning in all directions to locate the fleeing duo. Kismet glanced at them then returned his gaze forward, focused on darting past the parked vehicle. He almost failed to notice the bystander withdrawing a handgun from a concealed holster.
"Jesus," he gasped, whirling in mid-step and all but tackling Lyse in his haste to seek cover. He knew the gesture was futile. At less than ten paces, the man with the pistol could cut them to ribbons. As Lyse went down, barely aware of the new threat, the golden statue tumbled from her grasp. The relic clanked loudly on the brick surface of the street and rolled a few feet away. In his peripheral vision, Kismet saw her struggling to retrieve it.
"Lyse, that thing is—"
The gun spoke. Loud explosions echoed in the narrow confines of the street as the forty-five-caliber pistol discharged several times into the air over their heads. The man continued to pump bullets, not at the hapless pair on the ground, but into the crowd of men pursuing them. Several of the shots found their mark; Kismet heard cries of pain and cursing as the mob scattered, seeking the cover of doorways and debris. He knew it would not be long before Tariq and his cohorts returned fire, with himself and Lyse caught in the middle.
Why the motorist had come to their assistance, Kismet could not fathom, but when he looked up, he found the man gesturing for them to get in the Range Rover. Kismet nodded, and tried to crawl toward the vehicle, but his left ankle seemed rooted in place. He looked back and found Lyse clutching his foot.
"No, Nick. This way." She jumped up, the golden calf tucked under her arm, and began running back the way they had come.
"Lyse! What the hell-?" Kismet gaped in amazement as she threaded the gauntlet seemingly unnoticed by the Fat Man's mob, which apparently had more pressing concerns. He turned back to the pistol-wielding motorist, and found that the man's expression was no longer that of an eager rescuer. A muscle in the gunman's face had begun to twitch with rising ire, leading Kismet to believe that perhaps Lyse had made the correct decision after all. "Oh," he muttered, then took off running.
As he darted through the huddled group of men that had now given up pursuit, he heard the motorist barking orders in German. He risked a rearward glance and found that the fellow had not come to the street alone. Several men wearing casual Western attire materialized from the rear of the vehicle and took up the chase. Kismet swung his eyes forward, straining to catch a glimpse of Lyse, and poured on a burst of speed. Behind him the concussions of pistol fire resumed, but now the shooting was from both parties; a small war had begun in the street outside the Fat Man's house. Sparks danced on the walls to either side telling Kismet that although he was no longer the primary target, he was still in grave danger of catching a stray bullet. Lysette was nowhere to be seen.
"Ni-i-ick!"
The cry for help came from up ahead and to the left. Kismet spied an intersecting street and darted down it, leaving the firefight behind. When he turned the corner, he skidded to a halt.
An old beggar, eyes staring blankly in apparent blindness, sat with his back to one wall, oblivious to the violence a block away. He held a long rod in his fingers, and a straw basket lay before him, its lid resting against his knee.